


Ars Mysteriorum

by hobovampyre



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demons, Explicit Language, Hunters, Modern AU, Multi, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Violence, fae, kind of?, magic in modern times, male lavellan is the inquisitor so you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobovampyre/pseuds/hobovampyre
Summary: Magic has always been. It was there when the Veil came down; there when the horned giants of the North waged war against the World; there when the first cities arose; there when the Industrial Revolution sprung from the earth and it's here now. Just as magic had always been, so did the creatures born in it, magic made flesh. Vampires, demons, shifters and Fae, mages and humans, and wraiths all co-existing on a tenuous wire strung tightly across the world. Every so often, someone comes along to tap that wire just to see how much tension it had left to hold. How many taps, do you think, does it take until the wire just snaps?





	1. Dead Run

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not known for being good at this.  
> Beta'd by the most beautiful deity, sithrightsactivist who really is just amazing.  
> If this makes any sense, it's because of them.
> 
> THIS is...just going. It began as Dorian/Cullen but I also have an equal burning love for Dorian/Iron Bull and THEN read an amazing fic that had a really well done polyamorous relationship so I want to try. Key word: try.
> 
>  
> 
> Will update tags as I go  
> Sorry in advance. :T

_Two until midnight, street lamps flickered from neglect casting deceptive shadows against the cracking pavement of Haven's city streets. A consistent mist roiled along the ground, unknown in origin but ever present to set a mood of heavy apprehension that permeated the flesh and sunk deep into the bones. It was heavy but it was alive in its very own way that managed to make even the deepest of country boys want to take root in its soil. Maker, Cullen loved it. Now, never would he admit to that sentiment as the place held a warily unstable aura at best but his insistence on not leaving was enough testament to his affection for the few stern, but stalwart skyscrapers and bars, clubs and public buildings that planted themselves throughout the small city. Secluded as they were in the mountain hills, travel wasn't so tempting an option anyway._

 

 _Crunch, Crunch_ , running through a forest, he was running too fast to be seen, panting, panicking. If he didn’t hurry, they would find him. If he didn’t hurry, they might just kill him. His feet barely touched the ground and his mind flew yards ahead to plan just how the bloody hell he was going to escape what had to be at least a dozen pursuers. His nostrils flared and he bit his lower lip, worrying at just how close they really were if he could smell them this well going this quickly. Faster, quicker, he had to run.

 

_Besides, the small city, for the average person, was relatively mundane and safe for the average, well-to-do citizen. Public parks, good schools, local business on nearly every corner; Haven was a model community for the more suburbanite Thedosian family. Perfect for those who wanted the feel of a city without the feel of a real city. Perfect for someone like Cullen. Unfortunately, unlike Cullen, being in a city like this led to complacency. Complacency led to ignorance and eventually ignorance gave weight to flat out denial; and Maker do things that go bump in the night love denial. Demons, vampires, shifters, fae, golems, and dragonbeasts, wraiths and ghosts, all of these things that lived so close yet so far simply loved to feast on each other when the illusion of peace settled upon a dusty city like a veil._

 

 _Snap_! 

Dorian’s attention whipped to the side, his body thrusting itself away just as a body hurled itself past him. Attention shot, he could no longer keep track of his footing and he felt his feet drop beneath him just as the world ripped into a hard spin. He could feel the burn of blacktop pavement on his back, sliding until it became knives. Glimpses of a chain link fence swam in his vision, the iron claws tearing at his face, arms and shoulders. Maker’s balls, it hurt! No scars, no lasting bruises, no, but pain was pain and the searing and shearing of flesh made his voice catch in his throat, made it threaten to bring more pain down upon him.

“Kaffas..!” 

He braced himself as best he could, rolling into a stand just in time to deflect a jagged claw aimed for his face. Arms up, he backed himself against what seemed to be a concrete wall and jumped, using it as a springboard to catapult himself opposite his assailant. His foot shot out, his body spun, and his ankle met with the thick trunk of a neck, following through until the rest of that body was down on the ground. Briefly invigorated, Dorian chanced a grin but quickly let it fall as the creature he kicked simply dropped his head back and wailed.

“Shit.” 

_Cullen was a hunter. Well, kind of. He didn't seek out his prey as most in his profession often did. He was more of a protector, only policing the streets to ensure that any and every creature, human, fae, shifter, or other supernatural being that made efforts to live as good a life as they could was protected and cared for as was their Maker-given right to be. Decent people living decent lives were to be protected at all co--_

_What was that?_

_Rigid, Cullen stood, ears open and craning. There was a yell, a screech of some sort, and just as he heard the noise, his entire body thrummed with the sensation that something was wrong. A tingle in his skin, a pulse in his mind. Skills he had honed over years of training, training that gave him the ability to sense evil._

 

With a renewed sense of urgency, Dorian split off again, breath heaving, exhausted, shaking, desperate and utterly starving. He ran and ran, using the buildings as a way to block any line of sight that led to him, running up and down and over rooftops, running along fire escapes and between buildings. There was no plan, no destination in mind. Only the overwhelming and undeniable need to just _run._

 

_Cullen twitched, body snapping to a rigid attention. That was a vampire. That was a vampire calling out to other vampires - a vampire calling out that it found it’s mark. He broke out into a run, his training attuning him to such noises exactly , batting away the unease that threatened to settle in his gut. If he could gauge it correctly, the signal had been set off a good half-mile northeast, towards the forest’s edge on that side of town that had, for some reason, far too many abandoned buildings for Cullen’s tastes. Too many places to hide, too many opportunities for less savory things to set up roost. He grimaced, passively considering a formal petition to City Council about it as he made his way to the district’s edge, slowing to a stop so he could crane his neck, strain his ears for anything to give indication as to where he needed to be._

 

Left, right, right, left, over an apartment complex, between a bakery and a shoe store, through an intersection, up a--

In an instant, a force equal to that of a semi-truck slammed into his side and he went flying. Head over heels, over and over, he flew like before but this time, this time bones were beginning to snap. Pain, white and sharp, shot up his side and he felt the world spin before an all too sudden stop against a concrete wall. There was copper on his tongue, he could taste it start to spread around his mouth before he could see deep red drip onto the pavement beside his arm. “Nnggh..” Dorian blinked quickly, head spinning as he tried to get back up, to get moving again but it was no good. The weight of his body was too much for what was probably several broken limbs. He would heal, but not fast enough. Not even a stray rat for the flimsiest of pick-me-ups. Shit.

_Cullen frowned. There was nothing here, nothing anywhere that gave a hint as to where he was supposed to be. He shook his head, a small noise of defeated disgust falling from his lips, and began to rummage around in a pouch that was strapped tightly to his thigh, pulling lose a shriveled piece of wood and a lighter. He struck the latter deftly, thumb flicking open the lid, and held the small flame to the thinnest end of the root until it caught, giving birth to a bright, green flame that flickered odorless in his palm, dancing and jerking with the wind._

_A few heartbeats passed when the flame started to dim, softer and smaller than before, until it was merely a fourth of its size as smoke began in earnest to rise where the wood burned. Cullen’s face paled. The flame had gone a pure white. With chagrin at this revelation, he watched how the smoke rose and wafted up into the air, mixing on itself before it started to flow against the wind, towards a few buildings to give him a place to go. White, he thought gravely, following the smoke through several tall, dark buildings that more or less laid empty, save the odd metalworking shop or rubber factory. The White Court was here and he was fighting White Court slaves. Maker, what were they doing so far south? Pushing through his speculations, Cullen squinted into the night. This place was sprawling for a single man who had to navigate through it in the dead of night and Cullen had all but given up when the sound of glass shattering brought him back to earth._

_Glass that shattered very, very close to where he was._

 

Eyes lifted, glancing around, taking stock of themselves and the body connected to them with a groan that cut itself short before it could even begin. Dorian saw them first and Maker preserve him, he was thankful for it. Thankful for the chance to bury himself farther into the hole he had made. Before him, just outside of the long ceiling to floor glass window he had broken through earlier, was one of the many fae-born vampires his family so often owned. Rich, golden chains draped around its pale neck, ending in a small medallion which Dorian knew harbored the infamous House Pavus insignia. It was dressed well, as they always were; a beautiful and terrible sight to behold. He dared himself a small prayer as he tried to keep himself utterly still. Maker, if he was caught now, caught after so long running...well, he always wondered what marvelous new ways his father could invent in terms of torture. The man certainly seemed apt enough at it.

 

_Cullen stamped out the root as discreetly as he could manage, putting what remained back in its pouch, using the same movement to swiftly sweep his cloak back to reveal a long, dark scabbard. His fingers danced on the hilt of the sword, fingertips buzzing with holy power from the blade beneath them. He was ready, poised and eager, perfectly ready for whatever was before him. Unfortunately, being ready for what was ahead usually meant that he was grossly unprepared for whatever came from behind and, because life just wasn’t fair, he found himself grossly unprepared for the attack when it came. He heard the gurgle of a hiss first; the strike of claws was only after he had managed to acknowledge that the assault had begun. “Agh!” He grunted, pushed back a bit by the blow but is leniency struck him oddly. If the creature had meant for blood, that attack should have sent him flying, but no, that was a warning. They didn’t want to fight him, no, they wanted him to leave. They were protecting something, Cullen supposed, readying his sword, but what?_

 

As still as an Orlesian statue, Dorian remained as he was, eyes open, body taut and alert, fear coursing through him like an undercurrent in the sea. The slave before him was sniffing, trying to scent him, but he could see the frustration of something blocking its nose. He could see that they weren’t unscathed, a large gash running from ear to chin, dripping black ooze onto her nice collar. 

Her. 

He could then see that this slave was a girl. Poor dear, compelled to do as she was told simply because she wasn’t born the right way. He could empathize, though not too much given the circumstances. It wouldn’t do to go making friends with the ones who wanted you dead or at the very least collared. Fear and anxiety fluttered in his chest as each second ticked so slowly by, each drop of sweat that rolled from his nose dropping like an anchor onto the cool, tile floor. He felt like he was in control, calm, reaching deep down to sit in a place of utter zen, but that shattered like plate at the sight of two more slaves shambling closer to his little hidey hole. Maker preserve him, had he a pulse, he would be falling into cardiac arrest. 

Another woman and a man joined the first slave and in unison, in eerie, unnecessary, uncalled for unison, they turned slowly with wide, knowing eyes to look directly into his soul. 

Shit..!

_Rounding on the vampire, Cullen brought the silver and steel blade down just quick enough to feel it connect with flesh and with a wrench, he brought it back around in an attempt to connect once again. This time, he wasn’t so lucky. Metal struck cement and it rang up his arm, giving him a momentary stall, just enough to provide his enemy with an opening. He brought his shoulder up preemptively just to miss a blow to his neck, but not quick enough to stop claws from digging into the flesh of his back. With a cry, he swept out his open palm and hoarsely yelled from the Chant, pressing his hand forward with a renewed urgency. The vampire recoiled from him then, recoiled from the finely woven crucifix hidden in the palm of Cullen’s glove, giving the hunter the opening he needed to seize for a gut-rending blow to the back of the monster’s chest. His sword was true, a clean stab dead center of the chest, blood bursting from the hole in the vampire’s back. The creature screamed in pain and anguish, pinned, unable to move until the blade swung and cut into the dead space that was his heart. Cullen’s lips locked shut, cold gore flushing over his cheeks and mouth until he quickly wiped them clean with a gloved fist. Swallowing vampire blood and turning mid-battle really wasn’t on his to-do list for the night, he mused grimly, swinging to find the rest of the pack. This place had yet to be cleansed._

 

What in Dumat’s rotten molar happened? He was staring dead on at three slave caste vampires, staring at his inevitable and most certain death but now? Now he was wincing from the aftermath of a shriek, watching as the three who most certainly had him were scrambling, scattering in a panic. What in Thedas? He had almost summoned enough courage to venture a glance when a shining blade clamored against cool cement; another scream, another death. 

Shit. Kaffas, shit, shit. Swing after swing, he watched in abject horror as a figure cut through the slaves like they were cheap, dime store tissue paper. This one burst into ash, that one merely sliced in pure-fucking-half and with a dim sense of satisfaction, Dorian listened as the last begged, screamed, hell, it even prayed to be spared by this-this terrifying wonder hero. In his hole, he knew he was listening to an actual Hunter on an actual hunt and it was wondrous having only ever heard the bedtime tales of intrigue and terror told when he was child back in Tevinter. 

“Trained specifically to kill things that weren’t good: human, vampire, mage, ghoul, demon, shifter, they killed indiscriminately, blessed by the Maker themselves so it’s been said.” He could still hear Felix, huddled over a book they smuggled into his bedroom. “I can be a Hunter.” He would say before sickness took him. Maker, imagine if he ever went through with it. Well, no time to wonder now, not when he was stuck here alone. Time to move.

 

Shaking himself loose of memories long forgotten and largely useless now, Dorian craned his ears, trying to hear. His arm made it hard to concentrate, the pain finally returning in full force now that his adrenaline had come back under his control. 

“Mmm..” A quiet groan rumbled deep in his throat and he winced, panting with the sudden rush of pure need that lanced his body. A scratchiness, insistent like a knife twisting in a wound, clawed as his throat in an all too familiar, all too predictable way. How long had it been since he last fed? Days? Weeks? Kaffas, he needed to feed before he lost himself. That meant taking a chance that maybe, just maybe, the hunter had moved on or perhaps would see reason that no, he wasn’t feral. At least not yet. 

With a huff, Dorian crawled slowly from the indent he had made in the concrete wall, flinching as rubble fell and echoed in the dark warehouse. Silver eyes, now bright and hungry, darted about in almost terror as the rest of him hobbled out through the open window into the cool night air. The stench hit him first, sharp and molding, of death and of familiarity as the blood of his kinsmen painted the pavement. The hunter was thorough, Dorian had to admit and by sunrise all evidence of the crime would be burned away with the rising sun. On that note, Dorian gazed up and felt his pockets for anything with the time. No phone--must have fallen out and he cursed. He couldn’t see the moon through cloud cover so he would just have to assume the worst and find food, no shelter first. Food first--no, kaffas, second. Food second, Dorian, even as you can feel it with each step, the pain, the need. 

“Shit!” Hands clamped around his mouth, and he blinked. He blinked because he idly brought his own hands up and found that they were not, in fact, the one’s on his mouth. 

_Shit._


	2. Let's Just Call It A Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been sitting on this a while. Not yet beta'd but will update if need be aka if it's awful, it's my fault.

The creature beneath Cullen’s hand was warm, even as he reached around to grab the wrist of his good hand, twisting it behind his back to hold him prone. Still, the skin beneath his glove was warm. Not the unpleasant burning heat of a Red vampire no the unnerving cool of a Black. The he could feel warmth at all meant he wasn’t a Grey so that left Cullen with only one option; a White. The gang of vampires before were White, too, and that made no sense as to why a Court was hunting its own unless, especially in the case of Whites, there were political ramifications involved especially considering Whites preferred the safety of their own borders where their power was absolute, not daring to step anywhere in the South that would challenge every aspect of their authority . That meant whatever vampire he had beneath his fingers was not only in the upper echelons of Tevinter society, but possibly outright nobility. That, of course, begged the question as to why a noble from the White Court was running in the first place. 

Grounding his feet, Cullen felt the subtle variation of power all vampires possessed, his grip already tenuous knowing that only the creature’s wounds and exhaustion stood between him and a fight to the death. Whatever he had to say, he had to say it now. Gathering himself, watching the vampire, the grip he had on the creature’s mouth tightened, jerking slightly to show he had full control. His gloves were lined with both iron and silver and while he hoped it made some difference to his hold, he knew, really, that it was mostly just fear that held the creature still in his grasp and good fortune in what Court he was dealing with. White’s were the second least aggressive type of vampire, Red being the most, then Black, followed by White and Gray--power, stealth, charisma and intelligence. Cullen knew he had surprise on his side but the novelty of shock wore off quick.

“What is a White Court vampire doing here being chased by his own slaves?” He eyed the horizon quickly as he spoke, sniffing the air just enough to know that the sun would be rising in a little less than three hours. That wasn’t enough time to be able to rely on it, however, so he settled instead for quick force and his sword if he had to. Unlike Black or Red Court leeches, the Whites and Grays would die if you bled them enough. If you could stay alive that long, that is.

And Cullen could already feel the shift in demeanor from his captive and a spike of anxiety forced his heart to speed up a few ticks. Bad form to tell his moods to a creature that read heartbeats so he slowed his breathing, calmed himself down just enough to feel the sudden wet warmth on the inside of his palm. He blinked but didn’t let go and the sensation slide across the leather of his gloves again, this time slower and with confusion slow to clear did he realize he was being licked. Thank the Maker for gloves, White Court spittle was akin to a heavy dose of anesthetic and he shook the vampire to get him to stop. He didn’t but this time the tongue rested heavily against his middle finger and the creature made efforts to casually turn his head, eyes very bright and very silver. Cullen bit back a gulp in the face of such raw sensual hunger and he finally realized his error. How was he supposed to receive an answer from the vampire when his hand was block all possibility of speech? How embarrassing. 

Cullen’s frown set itself in stone and he gave another quick jerk of the creature's chin to show he wasn’t playing and released him, his free hand moving then to his neck to resume the image of control. He would have to be careful. At this point, the vampire was most assuredly half-crazed, the way his arm was dangling lifeless at his side, the blood dripping like a faucet at their feet. Any vampire was dangerous when they were starving; a White was most of all because they seemed so harmless in how they fed. That was their shtick.

The first sound he was given was a soft, whimpering little moan and just as intended, it sent a spike of heat through Cullen’s gut. He braced himself, legs apart and slightly bent but it wasn’t enough to assuage the sheer force of will that pushed itself outward from the vampire, settling over him like a warm, soothing blanket of broken glass, beckoning him to lower his guard while cutting deep into his psyche. Thoughts, like insects, skittered over his brain. _He’s already hurt, what could he do? Even holy water would hurt him now, just a splash...I’m in no danger if I just release him, watch him.._

No. Be still and calm. He trained against this. “Answer me. What is a White--”

_“Please_. I’ve come all the way from Tevinter and I’m exhausted.”Even though the eyes were pure silver, they were affecting a haughty, completely sane glint, rolling in their sockets as the vampire yawned. Cute, and Cullen fought to mimic the gesture considering vampires didn’t need to breath. Unfortunately, Cullen did. When the vampire spoke, he turned his body is such a way that Cullen could see he was actually quite beautiful. They always were, he reminded himself with clinical clarity, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the way his pores seemed to glimmer, like he had a gold dusting of glitter on his cheeks. That was new; the books he studied didn’t mention anything about any other facial changes. All he ever read about Thirst-driven Whites was that the color of their eyes shifted, their fangs extended and they released a sort of pheromone to draw victims in. Another small sound had his attention snapping back to the present and he could actually see the vampire’s pupils dilate as it sized him up, dark and heated. That wasn’t good. 

“Such a dashing hero, thank you for saving me. Those...brutes were sent to forcefully drag me back to Tevinter but you took care of that, didn’t you? Now, what am I going to give my protector, hm? Perhaps a kiss for my shining knight?” The tilt of his head screamed submission and Cullen had to shore up his defenses against the desire to take pity on the man even as he nursed his wounded arm, accentuating the illusion of helplessness.

Cullen arched his eyebrow then and kept eye contact, his eyes never quite meeting the vampire’s gaze for fear of what they may make him do. He settled pleasantly on the space between two dark, finely trimmed, overly meticulous eyebrows. “Indeed.” His tone was short and formal. “And perhaps a kiss to my boot as well. Move on, I’m taking you into custody.” The sexy lust vampire image shattered before Cullen’s eyes, the Vint ruffling visibly in a thankfully unappealing manner.

“On what charges?!” Cullen watched then as the vampire caught himself and eyes that had dimmed reignited like a light. “Look, I ran from home. The powers that be wanted me back, therefore they sent goons to bring me back. Simple. I just want my freedom and surely you understand that, being the ‘peoples protector” and all. You hunt and destroy evil, I am not evil. Just a runaway trying to start a better life. If I could raise my hands in surrender, I would but as you can see, the tendons in this arm are now probably completely severed and you have the other in a loving death grip.” The vampire’s nose was scrunched in a way that forced his lips to pout, and Cullen pointedly stared not at those lips.

What was odd about this entire discussion was the sincerity of it. The vampire was right and Cullen had to begrudgingly cede to the point that unless he was actively terrorizing Haven, Cullen had to jurisdiction to take him anywhere or do anything. The aggressors had been punished--by death in this case--as this vampire was just as much a victim as anyone else. Still, it didn’t sit right to let loose a vampire that obviously needed to feed soon. 

“A kiss.” Cullen blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re concerned about my Thirst, I see it in your eyes, so, I ask for a kiss. Just enough to get me by and find food elsewhere. With this little bit, I won’t have to take so much from someone else.” He canted his hips and Cullen corrected his innate desire to follow the movement with his eyes allowing him instead to see the way the vampire curled his lip. “You are meant to protect, yes? Then protect someone before I take more than I should. I don’t want to hurt anyone and I’ve got enough sense at this moment to take just what I need from you and nothing more.”

Cullen really couldn’t deny that he had a point. The only issue, as it always would be, was the integrity of the vampire and if he really would just take only want he needed. Still, he was a Hunter, before that he was a Knight of Andraste and his sole existence was that of a protector. The vampire licked his lips slowly, tantalizing and deliberate, knowing he was mulling over his offer and he could feel the tension in his shoulders where they were pressed against his own. 

“If we do this, I don’t let go.” Another huff but it was defeated, agreeing more than not as the vampire twisted further. “Stop.” Cullen commanded. “Mouth stays closed, eyes stay on mine.” 

He didn’t like it but he didn’t have a choice; releasing a rabid monster to the wild just wasn’t anything he could do and this really was no different than a parched man asking for water. A monster this man was, evil, he was not. Prejudice had a place in his youth and he was a better man today. The hand that was on the vampire’s neck moved back to his chin so he could maneuver through the awkward positioning to make this work. The pheromones the White was giving off gave Cullen enough of a forced arousal to be okay with this decision despite his nerves pulsing in tandem with his heart. 

Mentally, he counted off. One, two...On three, he leaned forward and pressed a chaste but firm kiss to the pleasantly warm lips before him. Several things happened at once; the first being Cullen’s observation of how soft and smooth the vampire’s lips were beneath his own, ceding to his power even as they didn’t part; the second being the reaction the vampire gave of not being able to reciprocate properly, his body arching deftly into Cullen’s own so that he was pressed flush and warm against him, his ass resting just above his groin,on toes to make it work; then finally the third being the dizzying feeling of his life energies being drained along with the sound of a low, thrumming moan. It was like standing up too quickly after sitting awkwardly for too long, the world tilting just enough to make you shake your head and blink your eyes until it righted itself only it never righted itself. And it was intoxicating. 

He was aware of the sensation of falling next, his skin thrumming as his being began to spin in place. Twisting, turning, the need to both sit down and push forward rising like bile and he was very ready to just give in when it all stopped. He was bereft, the breath vanishing from his lungs. Cullen’s vision solidified slowly, shapes coalescing to the image of the vampire turned away in profile with an expression that shot straight to his dick. Pure bliss coupled with satisfaction and yet an underlying need for a more. Open just a sliver, staring at nothing, the vampire’s eyes shined not so brightly; not all the way gone. 

“Thank youuu.” Cullen shivered at the tone the vampire had affected; that slow drawl, pleasure and satiation dripping from his mouth, dripping like hot wax onto Cullen’s skin. He drew back farther now, putting a good amount of distance between himself and the leech. He felt light-headed, like a good amount of energy had been siphoned despite how little the vampire’s complexion seemed to change. Not as hungry looking but still hungry. 

“Where will you go now?” The silence had given him enough wherewithal to realize he was still touching his lips and he dropped his hand in favor of his sword, resting it casually on the hilt. Long lashes blinked at him slowly, then quicker and Cullen could see the sense filtering through the vampire’s expression, awareness reestablishing itself though the hunter was less than reassured. 

“Where is the nearest bar?” The vampire’s speech no longer slurred around his tongue, instead setting a distinct air of defeated exhaustion around the man and Cullen found that that suited him just fine. 

Crucifix pointed down, Cullen pointed in a vague direct just west of where they were, waving just as ambiguously before committing to the gesture when he figured out the directions in his head. “Down that way. Head there until you see the square, turn right and then take a left. It’s in the main thoroughfare just..follow the lights.” When he received a blank stare, he made a soft noise of understanding and continued on. “The Gull and Tavern. For this time of night, that’s where you’ll find the most people in one place.” Maker, he might as well fill out the coroner’s report now with how he’s leading the vampire to the buffet. 

Cullen’s frown deepened when the vampire nodded and turned to begin his slow walk towards town--a good mile and a half from where they were. He noted that the creature’s arm had greater motion than before but he seemed to prefer just to let it hand as if any movement was too much, the way his features would scrunch in pain each time it poised giving Cullen pretty strong grounds for the assumption. Unfortunate but Cullen’s prejudices, though better, were still just so that, even as the vampire faded from sight, he couldn’t drum up enough sympathy for the thing. He may not be evil but it was hard to separate the monster from, well, a monster. 

Well, enough of that then. Turning back towards the direction he came, he surveyed the damage done to the nearby building and deemed it a non-issue. For one, the area was already in a quickly approaching state of disrepair so whatever the scuffle did, it would only serve to add to the encroaching decay. Secondly, Cullen was utterly exhausted. The ache in his bones was only outmatched by the pain in his head, a sharp panging thud that happened whenever he got too close to any magical or magic-bred things, living and non. Vampires, though not inherently magical themselves, hailed from one of the most magic-centric meccas in all of Thedas and though he was no longer a Knight-Templar, his discipline refused to grant him any moment of respite in the presence of strong magic. He wasn’t even taking Lyrium anymore and he could still feel its vestigial influences pulsing through his veins like blood. Maker, make me strong, his mind supplied by rote.

Oh, well, the past was the past and right now, Cullen needed to find his way back to the bike he left in the middle of some residential street back when this whole evening adventure began.The air in front of his mouth puffed a small cloud of mist, his exhale deep and heavy, his feet lifting, falling in a shallow trudge. Thank the maker for his good sense of direction and a little lesser for the tracker he attached and monitored with his phone. Glancing at the street address displayed on the little display, he felt his body fall into autopilot as it found its way to the street he started on. To think, all of this started when he got a call shut down a frat party full of Fae and shifters. Spring Fae, too, and that always meant there was easily far more glamour than the legal limit used to hide anyone under age, not that his human eyes could tell without actually trying.

He hated magic so much.

Cullen found his bike where he left it and threw up another silent prayer to the Maker, this time for letting his bike go unpilfered, pointedly ignoring the usefulness of the tethering chain some mage invented even as he unhooked it from the nearby street sign. Someone _could_ have still stolen it. Sliding into the seat, the man all but groaned into the night air, relishing in the sheer bliss of finally being able to just sit down. His thighs ached, thrumming in the cold, autumn air and he rubbed them down a bit as his mind wandered. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that kiss he gave to the vampire took more out of him than he anticipated. The more he admitted how foolish it was to have let that happen at all. Sure, vampires were aplenty just as Fae and mages were, but theirs was a sickness, a virus that could spread. A human couldn’t make a non-human human just by biting. A Fae couldn’t make a non-Fae Fae just by biting. A vampire, however, just a like certain species of Shifters, could make a human a vampire, could make a Fae a vampire. They were a disease and he let one kiss him. “Gh…” Thank goodness he was too tired to keep following that string of thought, mentally dropping his internal struggle between acceptance and hatred for later as he slid his helmet over his face. He just wanted to get home and with a quick rev, he peeled out into the street towards home base.

There was so much he had to do when he got back to the Chantry. Reports to give, reports to file and he knew the boss would want to know about the White Court presence that seemed to be breeding with itself, manifesting into a real issue. Tapping the side of his helmet, there was a beep in his ear; the bluetooth connection signalling that it was blinking to life. “Call Athir Lavellan.” Cullen murmured as he stared forward, waiting patiently for the device to process his request and initiate the call. True to form, the phone rang only once before it was immediately answered.

“Cullen!” The warm basso voice shined and Cullen instantly felt warmer just by hearing it. It truly never failed to surprise him what the voice of a Summer Fae did to someone; even when they were miles away with a voice like a dance in a northern Rivaini diphthong. “So tell what happened, I heard da news through Leliana but it seems dere was more to it if ya just gettin ta me now. Wait, wait, ya on da road?”

“Just passing the hospital, I’ll be no more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

There was a momentary pause before the voice returned, this time with more caution and a little more than a smattering of order. “Jus keep ya eye on da road. Go on.”

Cullen collected himself, putting to order the sequence of events that transpired over the night. He spoke first of the group of White vampires, a small company of four--three women, one man--and how they were shockingly weak to be out for a hunt in the middle of the night. The man went down first after going straight for the offensive and Cullen was still upset that he couldn’t get him to stand down. Meeting that noble White did begrudgingly remind him that not all vampires were necessarily doing something dubious and he was glad he had the foresight in the earlier encounter to at least try talking before fighting. He told Athir that they were jumpy and seemed to be looking for something--the noble, he now guessed in hindsight and told his boss just so--and they attacked as soon as the first question left Cullen’s lips. He spoke of the interesting power dynamic of the group, a blonde female natural vampire giving orders to three other Fae vampires and how she ended up being a mage as well. 

In his helmet, he could hear Athir snort, already visualizing his eyes rolling. “Of course, dey always end up mages.” There wasn’t any disgust, no disapproval, just the restatement of a commonly known fact when talking about Vints before urging Cullen to continue.

“The natural was the last I managed to kill but she was on her phone before I could get to her. I have a few scratches but no bites and no accidental ingestion. I’m on my way into the office now to write up the formal report--”

“Nah nah, go home. It’s late and ya hardly sleep anyway. Da paperwork be there in the morning, you? You won’t last past sunrise and ya no good ta me half-dead, hm?”

Cullen grinned to himself grimly but he wasn’t going to argue. That noble, whatever he did, utterly wiped what little resources he had left and it was getting harder to keep his eyes from blurring the road. Besides, he lived close enough to the office that he could just hit it up in the morning. His memory was selective enough to forget what he ate for breakfast while simultaneously remembering every detail of every battle he ever fought so he wasn’t concerned about forgetting details for the report.

Cullen rolled into his reserved parking space and hit the kick stand of his bike before slipping from the seat a little reluctantly. A wave of nausea hit him then, his hand falling flat against the seat for support, his body rigid as he quietly willed the world to stop spinning. That mage earlier...any time he was near magic, he became painfully aware of how empty he felt. A gnawing chill that made his fingers numb, made them shake if he wasn’t focusing hard enough to keep them still. Maybe Athir made the right call sending him home.

Walking up to his door after managing to wrangle in his body, he frowned just as he realized his hand was going to the defunct set of keys he held in his front pocket. “Andraste’s flames,” He muttered miserably, eyes heavy and stinging while his left hand pushed up the sleeve of his right arm. A silver chain fell down to his wrist and dangled there, glittering a brilliant light against the door while it hummed with just the tiniest bit of magic power. It was magic, of course, and this was the new key to his door. Athir had only recently installed this new safety feature in light of a bad Wolf Shifter attack to his co-worker Cassandra’s apartment. She was out, thankfully, but it was evident they were out for blood so Athir had everyone’s homes reinforced, their thresholds strengthened as best he could given each person’s circumstances. Cullen, of course, pitched the biggest fit first, possibly one of the biggest since leaving Kirkwall, but it took all of two seconds for him to feel an utter ass over it with the way Athir only smiled. Smiled and understood. It wasn’t fair how he felt like he was guilted into it, but really, he knew he was being childish so he apologized and had the door installed the next day and had Vivienne strengthen the wards the day after that. 

It was an odd space to be, using magic while simultaneously hating it with almost your entire being but he just sighed and lifted his arm up to the door. A few seconds passed, his eyes focusing on the peephole of his door with great intensity as he braced himself. He could do this. _“Apertus_.” Just as the air released from his lungs, Cullen felt his muscles tense at the familiar, horrible pulse of magic flooding his awareness. It didn’t come from inside him but rather felt like he was stuck in a room with magic acting as water would, filling all available space, gushing in, choking him, drowning him. 

Everytime he came home, he went through this, covering his face while chanting under his breath. “This magic is not real magic.” The door clicked and swung open for him, closing as soon as he crossed the threshold into his apartment. “It is just a charm and I am not using real magic.” He tossed his keys into a bowl on his counter and went straight for his bedroom, pulling his clothes off numbly, dropping them in a hamper. “This magic came from a spell placed upon a dead thing to serve me.” His sword went to its stand, his gloves their box. He showered, he brushed his teeth, he fell into bed, limp. “It serves me and I command it.” Every time he came home. “This magic is not real magic. It is a charm…”

He slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write at work then next type it at home. chapter 3 and 4 are both 75% done so hopefully those will be up soon. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this much at least. :)


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